


That Most Frustrating Light

by moonoverwings



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set between episode three and four of the BBC TV Show, Spell of Light, the pairing is there if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonoverwings/pseuds/moonoverwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Childermass grunted, turning over in bed. He was sick and tired, truth be told, of being sick and tired. A week he had been in absolute pain with his knackard up shoulder in this damn bed, which to his shock and horror, turned out to be Mr Norrell's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Most Frustrating Light

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: A random drabble. I’ve not read the book (yet!) so have based the characterizations and story on what has been shown so far (Episode 4) on the BBC version. (Fic first posted over on Tumblr with altmaltotheface)

Childermass grunted, turning over in bed. He was sick and tired, truth be told, of being sick and tired. A week he had been in absolute pain with his knackard up shoulder in this damn bed, which to his shock and horror, turned out to be his master’s.

Which solved the mystery of why the room smelt comfortingly of moth eaten books, biscuits and tea. Also being in Norrell’s bedroom went to explaining why all of his own dreams had his master in them, complaining at length about some failed spell of light he was trying to make appear in his palm. This intrigued Childermass’s mind, even if the rest of his body was out cold. At the same time, somewhere deep in his own subconscious, Childermass recalled having briefly woken in agony after the makeshift emergency operation upon the dining table. He had heard that his own bed, the doctor’s had deemed, was “too cumbersome and stuffy” to have him recover in. “Not enough light or air circulating, Sir!” one doctor had said with authority, before asking England’s most famous Magician; “Where might be the largest room?” Childermass heard Mr Norrell reply his own one was, naturally. Before he felt himself being hauled up the stairs and laid out in that very same room, picturing the horrific and flustered look on Norrell’s face. Childermass snorted to himself. He was to be sure that Norrell would loudly complain that him being in his bed would make the sheets stink of smoke. But Childermass didn’t care. He had saved his master and done his duty. He ignored how strongly his chest had clenched upon seeing a gun pointed at the closest thing he had to a friend.

~

Mr Norrell had made a point of avoiding his bedroom since Childermass had taken up residence inside it. Upon seeing them carrying Childermass up the stairs, he had almost blurted out at the doctors “Then where am I to stay?” like some selfish child demanding an answer from its mother. But the vision and shouting of Childermass’s shooting kept him quiet. He was used to a quiet life and was shocked, quite frankly, that being a modern man of magic meant that he was liable to be shot at. He shoved the guilt down into his heart and locked it away. As evening approached, Norrell had taken a risk and tried to sleep in another room as opposed to being slumped over on his desk. But the only one that was free was Childermass’s room. He entered and found that the doctors were completely correct in their assessment. The air was stuffy, the solitary window was too small and to actually climb into bed one had to negotiate with a couple of heavy boxes filled with God knows what. Then there was the heavy smell of the man himself. Smoke and musk. And Earth, oddly. Curiosity had gotten the better of Mr Norrell and he had opened the large boxes to find plants at various stages of growth inside. Actually, there were a lot of plants here. Something clicked in his head. He had noticed Childermass’s nails were similar to those who take up gardening. But the man had never mentioned he grew plants; herbs from the looks of them. Hmm, curious. Mr Norrell looked off to the side and saw a large green pillow that was the only colourful thing in the room, looking half moth eaten and well used.

A day later, and after a very uncomfortable night in a strange yet oddly familiar bed, he had heard moaning again coming from his room, no doubt from Childermass. A few times he had ventured in, each time hoping to see the man awake and well and each time stealing himself to meet either a scowl or stare from the closest thing he had ever had to a friend. But each time he found no such thing. The man looked peaceful asleep and if there was a fine damp sheet of sweat on him, Mr Norrell would nervously dab at the man’s skin with a wet cloth to cool him down. It was the least he could do, even if it felt beyond awkward at the role reversal.

From then onwards, each day he would visit, hoping to see Childermass greet him with a scowl or a smirk. But still, Childermass would not wake up. On occasion, Mr Norrell found he wanted the man’s company. He felt lost without Childermass lurking like a shadow over his shoulder, although would never readily admit it in public. One day, having shunned that green pillow to the side of the bed, Norrell had an idea and brought it up to the room, carefully resting Childermass’s head upon it. He imaged the man, if he could talk, would mumble the room smelt too much like Norrell. And Norrell would mumble back the other room smelt too much like Childermass.

The doctors came and went, concluding the man was on the mend and confirming that he would wake up at some point for his shoulder was looking much better these days. Norrell had tried to change Childermass’s dressing himself but considering the hight difference, he had shouted for a maid to help him. It disturbed him how warm Childermass’s naked skin was against his hands while helping to prop the unconscious man up against his own body, as the maid did her work. Plus, the fact that Childermass hadn’t obeyed his direct orders, for Norrell had shouted at his prostrated form to wake up, irked the magician to no end.

The past few days had him at breaking point and realizing just how much Childermass was key to his life; people with their constant letters demanding this and that in magical help, the ministers over at parliament nattering on about the War and not to mention Lascelles constantly poking his nose in where it wasn’t welcomed. So in those hours where they would mostly likely corner him, he sought out the one person who demanded nothing from him. Mr Norrell began to talk at Childermass’s bed side, sitting back in a chair. Telling the sleeping man how the War with France was progressing, useless local news he had heard the maids gossiping about, but most of all the frustrations with the latest magic attempt to conjure light in the palm of his hand. For hours and hours Mr Norrell would hold a one sided conversation about the problem of the spell, going over every instruction at length, as if Childermass would wake up if only to tell him bluntly where he was going wrong. It had been a spell Mr Norrell had read in his most recently acquired book, trying to distract himself from his brush with death that Childermass had saved him from. But try as he might he did not know how to perform it. Norrell lamented at great length to the gently breathing and unconscious form of Childermass.

It was two days later that something odd happened. Norrell, having fetched a new bowl of water and cloth for the sick man, came to his room to see light spilling out from under the shut door. Magic. Mr Norrell hurriedly pushed the door open and promptly dropped the bowl with a clatter upon the wooden floor. For emitting out of Childermass’s open palm, with the man still very much unconscious, was a ball of light. Gentle wisps of white and gold circled around and around slowly forming a ball above his palm like a crystal ball.

~

Childermass felt a river inside of himself sway and move in time to his breathing. Norrell’s voice echoed in his head. “Why can’t I get it to work? I’ve tried everything! This is most frustrating!”

“No, not everything, Sir,” Childermass had tried to mumble as he called forth his own pool of magic and felt it all head towards his open palm. Warmth started to bloom upon his skin and he was dully aware of a thump off to his left. Consciousness was just on the other side of the dark and damp canyon he was currently standing in. Childermass concentrated and the ball of light in his hand began to melt the canyon around him.

~

“What is this?” Mr Norrell demanded walking over to his servant, who’s face was in deep concentration, eyes screwed tightly shut, sweat pouring off of Childermass’s forehead. Norrell called again, demanding. But Childermass kept silent in his unconscious world, mouth mumbling and Mr Norrell finally lost his patience. “Not only do I find out that you performed magic in the square but now you insult me by performing it here in my very bedroom!” But Childermass kept silent. Mr Norrell huffed and shut the door, ignoring the discarded bowl, walking over to the familiar chair on the other side of the bed. He sat down, watched the ball of light swirling in Childermass’s hand. Despite himself and his growing envy, he began to try and discern how Childermass was doing it. He had never seen the taller man performing this sort of magic and was utterly fascinated, if terribly annoyed, by this new facet of his character.

The man stirred, turning over on his back and Mr Norrell swore he heard the man mumble his name.

Mr Norrell scoffed. Childermass was the only servant who could get away with saying his name, without the added “Mr.” Just why that was, and why he allowed the man to be so casual with him was lost on Norrell. But he liked it. Only once had Childermass said Norrell’s first name and that, ironically, was when he had knocked himself out while performing a spell of moving. The look of concern on Childermass’s upside down face, and the feel of his unruly and wavy black hair, only loosely confined in a pony tail, across his face still haunted him. The concern in his dark eyes was genuine. Which was shocking. The man was gruff, sarcastic, too smart for his own good and it was well known he cared little for other people. Except Mr Norrell. But then again, he was paid. Regardless, Childermass was his confidant, his helper, his adviser and the man could move mountains with his deep Yorkshire voice of his. So if the man was smugly showing him how easy the light spell was then why wouldn’t he wake up? Bastard.

“I suppose you expect me waft some Yorkshire Pudding under your nose as a reward,” Mr Norrell muttered, gesturing to the ball of light at the man’s hand. “That might wake you up enough to explain all this Magic you’ve been performing without my knowledge.”

Childermass moaned more in his sleep, shifting, making Norrell raise his eyebrows. With the last memory still in his head, he took a gamble.

“…John?”

The light at Childermass’s palm dulled and faded until it was gone as John Childermass finally opened up his eyes.

~


End file.
